


To Our Mutual Benefit

by feyestwords



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Canon Divergence - Antipasto, Canon Divergence - Dolce, Dimmond being an asshole, Hannibal Lecter Being an Asshole, Jealous Will, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, That kind of party, Threesome, Will is salty af, bordering on crack, thirsty scarf dad finally gets his threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7861000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyestwords/pseuds/feyestwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slim faced, a few stray curls falling in front of his forehead. Bright eyes, identical stubble. Will’s every muscle tensed.The man smiled, too wide too cheery. “You must be Will Graham.” He walked to Will, long strides, hand outstretched. Will took his hand, eyes narrow, grip tight. “I’m Anthony Dimmond. Nice to finally meet you. We’ve been wondering when we’d be able to have you for dinner.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inter_spem_et_metum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inter_spem_et_metum/gifts).



> Important: This takes place in the universe of 'Hannibal didn't kill Dimmond in Antipasto, instead he ditched Bedelia and decided instead to take his new thirsty murder friend along with him on his travels' This also serves as a Dolce fix-it.

Will had only ever thought about it in the abstract. Nothing concrete. Nothing intentional. The thoughts would flick in and out of his conscious at random, unfocused images. Hannibal’s hands. The nape of his neck. The sharp line of his jaw. Early in their relationship, Will would meet the thoughts with a quick, unpleasant scrunch of his face, maybe a slight shake of his head. Intrusive thoughts, he told himself, are common. Not really indicative of anything. But as their relationship evolved, so did the thoughts – in frequency and intensity. Hannibal’s hands again, in his hair this time, curls between fingers. Hannibal’s lips, parted by his tongue as it ran across them.

Often, the images were flecked with blood. Usually Hannibal’s.

In the months after Hannibal fled, Will would find himself startling awake, blinking away haunting and familiar after images. Things he hadn’t actually seen. The skin across Hannibal’s hips. Hair falling over his reddened face as he hung over Will’s hospital bed, planting a row of kisses along his neck.

They followed him across the ocean, pestered him as he trimmed the sails. He dismissed them far less often nowadays. They provided a bizarre sort of company.

He forgot them, heart heavy in his chest, knife heavy in his pocket, as he entered the gallery.

_Strange, seeing you here in front of me._

Hannibal’s face was covered in scars to rival his own. Will spoke of the after images. He told Hannibal how he needed to see him again. How desperately he needed things to be clear.

Hannibal reached out. Fingers threaded through Will’s hair, pulling him in, the skin of his lips brushing light against Will’s, and the images came flooding back, crashing together. Stitched at the seams, forming an enormous mural, grander and brighter and clearer than the Botticelli in front of them. Unparalleled in its beauty and glory. Hannibal pulled his lips away and Will saw it reflected in his eyes. Cursed himself, wondered how he had never seen it until now.

Everything made sense. He forgot entirely about the knife until they stood and its weight shifted in his pocket.

_Oh._

Before he could think, Hannibal took his hand, pressed a small piece of paper into his palm, curled Will’s fingers around it.

“I do hope you’ll join us for dinner.”

Will looked down at the paper, an address, a time, written in a handwriting that was not Hannibal’s.

_Wait._

Will blinked. Looked up, saw that Hannibal had disappeared.

_…Us?_

He frowned. Something clicked.

_…Bedelia._

Will hadn’t exactly planned on being in Florence for long. The knife handle in his pocket, bouncing against his leg as he walked, reminded him of that. Each step more confusing then the last. He wandered in a haze away from the gallery, not quite sure where his legs would take him. He was content to surrender himself to his body for the moment, and found himself leaning on a wall in an arch of the Ponte Vecchio, staring out at the water of the Arno.

There was something different about the way the sun reflected off the surface. New. The place Will lived in now was not the one he lived in yesterday, or this morning. The world had been reborn when Hannibal’s lips touched his and everything came together. He pushed his fingers to his mouth and tried to feel again the pressure of Hannibal’s. It wasn’t, of course, the same, but the memory alone sent a warm rush over Will’s skin.

The sun inched lower in the sky and someone next to Will cleared their throat, jolting him back into his body. He made eye contact with a young woman, who met his gaze with one of disgust. He frowned, confused, before he remembered what he must look like. Fingers traveling from lips to forehead, poking, gingerly, at the wound there. He left the arch and examined his reflection in one of the shop windows.

He was in no state for a dinner party.

Will spent what was left of his Italian currency on a less than desirable hotel room and a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino. He tried desperately not to think too much about exactly what he was doing, standing in front of the fogged mirror after the shower.

_I came here to kill him._

He smoothed his hair into place, waves under his fingers. Images of what should have been swarmed in his periphery. Hannibal’s blood pouring between Will’s knuckles, his feeble and desperate attempts to hold his intestines inside the gaping wound Will left in his abdomen. Will splashed a bit of cold water onto his bruises. Fingers brushing over his pursed mouth, and the images of blood were replaced with images of Hannibal’s tongue running across his bottom lip. Will shivered.

He spent a few moments in calm deliberation, the knife laid next to the bottle of wine on the bed in front of him.

He decided to bring them both.

The knife burnt, white hot, searing against the fabric of his pocket against his skin. Will’s heart pounding an irregular rhythm into his throat. He walked past the elevator, took the stairs, hoping that the climb might calm his nerves. It didn’t. Skin tight over knuckles from the grip around the wine bottle, biting the inside of his cheek.

Apartment 7B. Will knocked, sharp, three times.

Footsteps like drumbeats and the door swung open. Seeing him a second time was no less captivating. Hannibal, hair slicked back neat, bright eyes and sharp angles, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Will had to remind himself to breathe.

“Will.”

“Hi.” Breathy.

“Glad you could join us.” Something so strange about the comforting familiarity of his voice, the way his accent rounded off his words.

“Sorry I’m… a bit early.” The bizarreness of the casualty in the situation eluded Will at the moment. A crooked smile, the knife again forgotten.

“Nonsense. We’re just finishing up dinner preparations.” Hannibal stepped aside, a sweeping gesture. “Come in.”

The apartment was dimly lit, a few lamps, a bright fire cackling in the fireplace, past the long dining table at the far end of the room. The table was adorned with what Will could only describe as a ridiculous amount of dried flowers and fruits, a few small candles positioned neatly between the decorations. Will noticed the three table settings at the same time as he heard the clinking of silverware through a doorway to the right. His heart screeched to a halt. He had forgotten entirely about Bedelia.

He cast Hannibal a look, not quite knowing what he was trying to convey. A wish for privacy? Exasperation? Hannibal met his glance with a polite smile, a quick nod. He called to the kitchen.

“Our guest has arrived.”

The gentle rattling of glassware, the closing of an oven, heavy footsteps, and someone who was decidedly _not_ Bedelia appeared in the doorway.

Taller than Will, only by an inch or two. Slim faced, a few stray curls falling in front of his forehead. Bright eyes, identical stubble. Will’s every muscle tensed.

The man smiled, too wide too cheery.

“You must be Will Graham.”

He walked to Will, long strides, hand outstretched. Will took his hand, eyes narrow, grip tight.

“I’m Anthony Dimmond. Nice to finally meet you.”

Hannibal stood beside them, looking pointedly somewhere between the two men, then down at their handshake, lasting a millisecond too long. Will fixed his eyes on Hannibal’s far-too-pleased expression, failing his brain’s frantic search for words.

Dimmond dropped his hand, and when Will did not speak, he continued.

“We’ve been wondering when we’d be able to have you for dinner.”


	2. Chapter 2

Will poked at his food with his fork. Whole-wheat pasta, salmon, lemon and basil. He hadn’t listened as Hannibal explained what it was, the bizarre significance he had assigned to it. Anthony had made a comment about the wine Will had brought ‘not pairing’ with the dish. Will responded by pouring himself, and only himself, a sizeable glass.

He focused on the faraway crackling of the fireplace, the rushing static behind his ears. Underneath the table, he ran his hand over his pocket, fingers along the outline of the knife. Dimmond was his size, his stature, but slender. Clean and well-kept. Quick, possibly, but likely not that strong. Will was sure he could take him, but he sat at the far end of the table. Will wouldn’t be able get to him fast enough without giving him some time to prepare, to defend himself.

He took another large gulp of wine, mused. Hannibal wouldn’t interfere. Hannibal would just watch. The center of his chest beginning to hollow out. Of course Hannibal wouldn’t interfere. That was exactly what Hannibal wanted, the two of them against each other. That was the whole point of Will’s presence here tonight.

Suddenly aware of the empty space just in front of his lips. Remembering how Hannibal’s face fit so perfectly against his own. The memory stung, sharp. Jagged and rotten. Will frowned, poured himself more wine.

Maybe he’d go after Hannibal instead. That was the initial plan, after all.

“Will?”

He looked up.

“Yes.” A deliberate flatness to the syllable.

“I asked what you thought of the Uffizi gallery.” Dimmond was looking at him, eyebrows raised in a look of genuine curiosity.

Will cleared his throat. “It was… nice.” Placed his hand back on the table. “Although I only really saw the one Botticelli.”

Dimmond huffed his exhale, a nod. “Hm. Most do.” He chewed his food, motions exaggerated and deliberate. “A beautiful work of art, really, even I can’t deny that. But it’s basically a tourist attraction.”

“Ah, no.” Hannibal laughed quietly. “We saw La Primavera, not Nascita di Venere.” Smiling as he talked. Will scowled.

“Ahhh.” Drawn out. “Of course, I should have guessed. I expect more from you,” inclining his head in Hannibal’s direction, before looking back to Will, “You must forgive me, I had you pegged as the sort who would go to The Louvre just for the Mona Lisa.” Dimmond’s words, though biting, poured smooth like honey.

Contempt flooded Will's mind, forced its way up his throat. He choked it back like bile. Played it close to his chest.

“I’m not the most… _cultured,_ admittedly.” Smile visibly fake, pressed against his wine glass. He tossed back the rest of it in a few large gulps, in case the distaste in his words wasn’t clear enough. Both Hannibal and Dimmond watched. Exchanging a glance afterwards that made Will’s stomach twist over on itself.

“That’s quite alright. I can’t blame you for being American.”

Hannibal stifled a laugh. Will stabbed at his food hard enough to shift his plate over on the table, an unpleasant scratch of silver against glass met their ears. 

“If I’m here just to be berated, then-”

“No, no, of course not.” Dimmond put up his hands in mock-surrender, shaking his head as he spoke. “My sincere apologies. Just wanted to have a bit of fun with you. Though I’ll admit,” lifting his wine glass, taking a small sip, “It was absolutely in poor taste.”

Will looked to Hannibal, waiting for him to jump in, say anything – _defend_ him, the way he would to Jack and Alana and the rest of the world. Instead he sat, eyes on his plate, mouth pursed in an attempt to hide a smile.

Will felt sick. He swallowed the food he’d been chewing for too long. The memory of Hannibal’s lips tasted sour now. He frowned into his wine.

“How long have you two known each other?” Will didn’t know why he asked a question he didn’t want to know the answer to. But jealousy seized his bones, forced hot blood through crooked veins, tainted his speech.

“Not long.” Hannibal finally spoke. Will’s eyes snapped to his. Narrowed.

“Long enough.” Dimmond chimed, the faintest echo as his syllables bounced off the inside of his wine glass. He sipped with an eyebrow raised. “Though not as long as the two of you.”

Will huffed. “He knows about us? About you?” Speaking directly to Hannibal, staring past Dimmond.

Hannibal gave one, curt nod.

“How much does he know?”

“You can ask him yourself, Will, he’s sitting right beside me.”

Bitter words and gritted teeth. “How. Much.”

Dimmond, eyes clear, a crooked smile. “Everything.”

Will made no attempt to soften his glare. “Everything?”

He took another sip of wine as he spoke, did not once break his gaze from Will’s. Whispering his repeated response. “ _Everything._ Baltimore and his work with the FBI. Yours. His murders.” A pause. “…yours.”

Will’s lungs, his heart, hardened in his chest. “Alright. You know enough.” Were he less angry, he might have blamed the wine for the blatant pettiness of his words. "I assume then, you know why he’s run off to Europe and picked you as his… rebound.”

Hannibal nearly choked.

Dimmond’s laugh was light and cheery. “Rebound? That’s a new one.” He turned to Hannibal. “I must say, of the cast of characters that have dredged themselves out of the past and followed you into your new life, I prefer this one to Ms. Du Maurier.” He looked back to Will, eyes keen, in a way that made Will’s anger falter.

“He’s much more lively.”

Will looked to Hannibal, to Dimmond, to Hannibal. Waiting, still, for Hannibal to fill the space with any remark, do something, pick a side, anything. Instead he sat, leaning comfortably back in his chair, a wide grin stretched across his lips.

“You seem _happy._ ” Will spat.

“Yes, you do look rather pleased with yourself.”

Hannibal’s smile brightened in response. Looking back and forth to Will and Dimmond before clearing his throat and answering. “I’m merely enjoying an image my mind seems to repeatedly construct.”

Will’s eyes narrowed.

Dimmond’s widened. “Really?”

Hannibal nodded.

Dimmond stood, slow, smoothing down a few creases in his shirt with the quick pass of his palm. He walked the short distance to Hannibal, each step deliberate, positioned himself so that he was standing behind Hannibal’s chair, hands atop his shoulders.

“You might be _partially_ correct, Mr. Graham.” He gave Hannibal’s shoulders a tight squeeze. One, palm flat, slid down, resting against Hannibal’s chest. “Though I don’t know if I’d consider myself a ‘rebound.’ I mean, we certainly don’t have the… history that you do.” Bending down as he talked, resting his chin where Hannibal’s neck met his shoulder. Hannibal sat stone-still, stared, fixed, at Will.

Words like silk. “The back and forth, the illness, the emotional instability.” Had Will not been staring intently at Dimmond’s hand, he might not have noticed fingers fiddling with shirt buttons. His other hand slid further down. Out of view, blocked the table. He couldn’t see what Dimmond was doing, but knew. The movements of his arm, Hannibal’s chest rising and falling, quicker with every breath.

Hannibal’s lips parted in a soft gasp. His eyes fluttered shut.

A scalding wave washed over Will.

“The threats. The betrayal.” Dimmond hissed as he pressed his lips to the side of Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal rolled his head backward at the touch. “ _I’ve_ certainly never betrayed him.”

Each word pointed, spat into the air. But Will had no trouble tuning them out, eyes locked onto Hannibal. The way his irises twitched underneath his eyelids, the slope of his neck with his head tilted back. His chest, rising and falling more rapidly with each passing second. Dimmond pressed a kiss to the side of Hannibal’s face. He leaned into it. A thick heat pooling low inside Will.

He’d seen this Hannibal before, ragged breathing and messy hair, in the afterimages he’d only today come to grasp. Dimmond kissed along Hannibal’s jaw now, down to his neck. Hannibal reached up and grasped the side of his head, breathing heavy. Dimmond’s arm moved slow. Purposeful. Everything just out of view under the table.

Will squirmed in his seat. This was not right. This was not what he had seen, not what the images had shown him. He remembered scenes he hadn’t played in; Hannibal gripping him fast, his hands in Hannibal’s hair, tongue against teeth. All that could be. All that was, right now, in front of him, being taken away from him as he sat and did nothing. His heart beat heavy in his throat, his cock. 

His mind still deliberated, but his body stood, moving for him. Dimmond’s eyes flicked up, trailed Will as he stalked down the length of the table. Hannibal opened his eyes just in time to see Will, looming over him, eyes black, lips parted. He gripped either side of Hannibal’s face and took his lips for his own, pressing a fierce kiss to them, inhaling sharply. For the second time that day, the air around Will seemed to hum, vibrating, light and glowing, warming his skin. Hannibal’s hand was in his hair, at the back of his head, pulling him in, under. Will, eyes scrunched tight, surprised at the familiarity of Hannibal’s mouth, having only explored it once before.

They broke their kiss, chests heaving, heads spinning. Hannibal looked at Will in a way he’d done thousands of times before, but now, finally, Will understood.

Still catching his breath, Will gave a weak nod, and suddenly, Hannibal was on his feet, fingers digging into Will’s head near his ears, forcing him up, back, onto the table, licking into him, movements fierce and frantic. Will did all he could to avoid knocking over the décor, but the sharp rise and fall of Hannibal’s chest came to match his own and all else was forgotten. A plate shattered on the floor, everything Will knew with it. Hannibal’s legs between his own, suffocating underneath his tongue. Will grabbed hold of Hannibal’s hair in one hand, the other caught his waist. He felt, as Hannibal climbed atop the table, atop him, something press against his lower stomach. Remembered in a moment of startled pause.

Hannibal’s pants hung loose and awkward around his thighs. 

_Oh, right._

Less startled than he expected when his own cock begin to fill. Will moaned into Hannibal’s mouth.

And then the world came crashing back to him as Hannibal’s mouth left his, the space above him empty. He opened his eyes to see Hannibal, straddling him still, sitting upright, turned to the side. Dimmond’s tongue slip through his lips. Hannibal’s hands on either side of Dimmond’s head. Will watched the way their necks moved, Dimmond’s lip pulled between Hannibal’s teeth. How easy and familiar they seemed. It made his face, his cock, burn hot, thick and angry as Dimmond once again reached for Hannibal. Stroking him in slow, agonizing movements. Hannibal’s hips moved against Will’s, Dimmond’s hand brushing Will’s stomach as it moved. Hannibal huffed heavy into Dimmond and Will’s cock strained against his pants. He sat up on elbows, panting. Moved to press his hips up into Hannibal, unable to tear his eyes away.

Dimmond pulled away first, leaving Hannibal, mouth open, nipping at his jaw.

“Now, darling.” Dimmond, voice low, insidious. “We mustn’t neglect our guest.” Letting Hannibal’s cock fall from his hand, fumbling with Will’s button, zipper.

Will gasped, quiet, as Dimmond’s fingers met his cock. He looked to Hannibal, eyes wide, making no attempt to mask the confused discomfort that rushed to his face. Hannibal was one thing. Dimmond, another. He opened his mouth to protest, 

“I don’t-”

Hannibal silenced Will with his tongue. Quiet until Dimmond’s thumb pressed gentle to the head of his cock, forcing a groan from his chest and into Hannibal’s mouth. He felt something that was not Dimmond’s hand and realized, a wicked shiver running the length of his body, that Hannibal’s cock was on his, Dimmond facilitating. Will, rigid, aching, arching up into Hannibal. 

It took Will a moment to notice Hannibal’s hands were not where they were a moment ago – at his waist. He opened his eyes to see them running over Dimmond, pulling away at fabric, revealing smooth and perfect skin. One hand tugged at Dimmond’s cock, the other traveled around his waist, behind him. Dimmond’s mouth dropped open with a shuddering gasp. Hannibal’s shoulders shifted, torso twisting towards Dimmond. He pulled him in, close. The sounds from Dimmond, smooth and rich. Enticing. Will’s heart slamming around his ribcage, watching Dimmond’s shoulders slump, his body go limp, then rigid, arms wrapped around Hannibal, digging fingers into shoulders, biting hard at Hannibal’s neck. He pushes Hannibal down, plates and vases aside, the sound of breaking glass accompanying their labored breathing. Will’s eyes fall on Hannibal’s hands, one gripping the curve of Dimmond’s ass, pulling firm against him. The other, inside of him. Dimmond’s curls falls in front of his face, his eyes, squirming with every movement of Hannibal’s fingers. They’ve left Will aside, caught up in each other.

The way Hannibal knows just how to move, the way Dimmond’s rolls his hips on top of him, grinding against his cock, a well-rehearsed dance. Will’s throbs, unattended. Hannibal smiles into Dimmond’s mouth after one particular motion makes Dimmond cry out.

Will, again forgoing thought, desperate to know what makes him so special, grabbed a fistful of Dimmond’s hair. Pulled him away from Hannibal and pressed their mouths together.

_Oh. Oh!_

Dimmond’s tongue was not Hannibal’s. It didn’t make the air around them warmer, cause his heart to fall through his stomach. It did, however, seem to know its way around. Will had never before had such a reaction to only a kiss, but Dimmond’s teeth tugged gentle at his lips, tongue dancing around his, and Will’s cock began to drip.

Hannibal must have done something, for Dimmond yelped, bit, drew a small amount of blood from Will’s lip. Will ignored it. Iron dripping off teeth. He climbed off Hannibal, moved closer to Will, mouth leaving his, trailing down his neck, his chest, his stomach. In one swift movement, he swallowed Will down, mouth around his cock, sending Will’s irises flying to the back of his head. An unholy flick of his tongue and Will gasped, threading his hands through Dimmond’s hair.

Hannibal positioned himself behind Dimmond, spitting onto one hand, the other bracing on hips. Will felt Hannibal pushing into Dimmond through his own cock, Dimmond’s hummed moan buzzing through Will’s belly.

They fell into a rhythm, Hannibal’s hips, Dimmond’s head.

Warmth spread, overflowing, as Will’s eyes met Hannibal’s. Fearsome and terrible and magnificent. Hannibal reached out, swiped blood from Will’s lip. Brought his hand to his mouth, sucked his fingers clean of scarlet.

The heat in Will spilled over. He gripped Dimmond’s head tight as he came, vision white, body aflame, thick at the back of Dimmond’s throat. Hannibal’s hands were suddenly atop his, and palms pressing down angry, fingers slotted together.

A twist. A crack.

Will looked down just as Hannibal climaxed, head thrown back wild. His cock fell from Dimmond’s mouth just as Hannibal pulled out, stained with spit and cum and red.

Dimmond fell with a heavy slump to the table between them. Blood poured slow from his open mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP THIRSTY SCARF DAD
> 
> AT LEAST YOU DIED DOING WHAT YOU LOVED 
> 
> i want to be veeerrrryyy clear that this fic is just for fun and is in -no way- representative of me as a writer. it IS representative of me as a horny bastard, though. ayy.
> 
> one more very short chapter just for fun :P


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this last mini chapter was just for fun :P

Will held one end down, tender muscle underneath gloved hands. 

“Did you have to kill him?”

Hannibal, leaning over, using his shoulders to press the limb in place. Eyes fixed to the string in his fingers, voice low as he tied the knot.

“Do you think I could have let him go?”

Will released, took a step back.

“No.”

Hannibal walked to the other side of the small table. Taking another limb between his hands, a precise twist, a soft crunching of bone. Will watched him work, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a stray strand of hair falling in front of his eyes. 

A warmth pooling in his chest, and Will remembered the way he felt seeing Dimmond broken on the table. Hannibal’s mouth on his immediately after, climbing over Dimmond’s corpse, pinning him down to the table and forcing rough kisses over Will’s neck, growling that he would no longer share.

He couldn’t kill Hannibal. Not now that his lips had made sense of the world.

“Help me with this.”

Will moved to Hannibal’s side, holding limbs in place as Hannibal pierced them through with a second, then a third sword. Will grunted with the weight of it as he and Hannibal lifted it from the table, careful as they tilted it. It stood on its own marvelously well.

“You don’t think this is… too much?”

Hannibal shook his head, a quiet laugh. “No. Anthony was great company to me. He deserves beauty in his death.”

Will scoffed, laughing as well, exhaling his words. “ _This_ is beautiful?”

Hannibal’s arm against Will’s, leaning gently, admiring their work with bright eyes. A teasing smile cast at Will. “You don’t think so?”

Will considered the sculpture for a moment. Steady beads of black red blood rolled down the blades. Grotesque. But lovely, in its own sort of morbid way. The artistry. The emotion it carried.

“I… I do.”

His eyes fluttered closed as Hannibal’s lips planted a kiss at his temple. When they opened, Dimmond’s body, gnarled and twisted, began to pulse. Beating steady. A low and rhythmic thumping, matching the one in his chest, in Hannibal’s.

“You won’t miss him?”

“Not now that I have you, no.”

Will let his head fall onto Hannibal’s shoulder.

Hannibal, apparently unsatisfied, “I _do_ have you, Will?”

Will looked up. Smile tugging at one side of his face.

“You won’t ever have to share me again.”


End file.
